


Au beau milieu de la nuit, la fumée

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:03:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They said it was only smoke damage, mostly,” Feuilly says with a wave of his hand, perhaps in an effort to seem nonchalant about the whole thing. There are traces of paint still on his hands, though, and his eyes are red-rimmed, Jehan notices – he must have been working late, he figures, trying to finish a piece, or doing as many hours as he can to make up for the precious wages he lost when he’d caught cold last month. “Fire caught next door.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Au beau milieu de la nuit, la fumée

**Author's Note:**

> I think - _think_ \- this was inspired by a prompt for Jehan/Feuilly cuddles on the kink meme. I can't remember. It's late. Besides, this is barely cuddles, and certainly not fluffy enough to qualify. I'm sorry. I suck at titles.

It is the middle of the night – or well past midnight, actually, when Jehan hears a quiet knock on the door. Spring is a shy season, and the air is chilly and dry against his skin.

He feels oddly exposed, wearing only a long chemise, his long hair loose and dishevelled, when he opens the door to let Feuilly in. Feuilly’s clothes smell of ashes and his face is pale and drawn.

Wordlessly, Jehan lets him in. It doesn’t take the fanmaker much time to explain what has just happened – his words are nervous and tired, not as careful as they usually are, but Jehan understands anyway.

“They said it was only smoke damage, mostly,” Feuilly says with a wave of his hand, perhaps in an effort to seem nonchalant about the whole thing. There are traces of paint still on his hands, though, and his eyes are red-rimmed, Jehan notices – he must have been working late, he figures, trying to finish a piece, or doing as many hours as he can to make up for the precious wages he lost when he’d caught cold last month. “Fire caught next door.”

Jehan nods quietly, and locks the door behind his friend.

“Good thing, though, is that I had my coat on today. Well, I suppose. But the building might not be structurally sound anymore, they said. So they’re not letting anyone in tonight.”

Jehan bites his lip to keep himself from saying he is sorry.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” he offers instead, in hopes of sparing Feuilly the additional distress of having to swallow his pride and ask. He puts a hand on his shoulder - his friend tries to smile in gratitude, but it is the smile of a man who may have just lost what little earthly possessions he owned, so it is wary, broken.

“Bad luck, that, eh?” Feuilly says with a barking, humourless laugh. With slow, tired movements, he takes off his coat and runs a hand across his face. “Bossuet’d be proud.”

“He’d help you. We all would.”

“I know,” Feuilly’s shoulders drop. He looks small, defeated. It is such an unsuited posture for the steadfast, capable man Jehan knows. His first impulse is to wrap his arms around his friend, to pull him into an embrace.

And so he does, carefully removing the other’s cap and rubbing small, soothing circles on his back. Feuilly’s shoulders stiffen. 

“I don’t want to impose-“

“None of that,” Jehan interrupts. “My apartment was the closest.”

“Yes,” Feuilly agrees quietly.

“So coming here simply was a logical decision.” For all Jehan himself cares about logic – which is not much-, but Feuilly nods against his shoulder. “I would have done the same, had the situation been reversed. And I know you would have welcome me.”

“I appreciate it,” Feuilly sighs, but his tone is honest. “Thank you.”

Jehan only kisses the side of his head in response.

They stay like that for a moment, bodies pressed together, Jehan’s reassuring warmth against Feuilly’s threadbare shirt, until Feuilly straightens up and rubs his eyes. Jehan lets go.

“Bahorel spilled wine on my spare mattress last month,” he offers, cheeks turning a light dusty pink at the memory. “I’m sorry, but I have yet to replace it. My bed is wide enough for two, though, if you want to share.”

“I – are you sure? You don’t need to-” The look Jehan sets on him is not exactly a glare, but it is enough to quiet Feuilly’s protest and stop him from even hinting about sleeping on floors.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you,” he says limply. He doesn’t move when Jehan turns away and takes out a spare blanket – heavy and woollen, one that comforts him during the long winter nights, so much colder here in Paris – from a large trunk in the corner of the room. He smiles as he holds the blanket up and settles back on his bed, and pats a spot to his right. 

Feuilly sits and the bed creaks as he shrugs off his boots. He sighs heavily.

“I’ll…” He trails off, searching for words, exhaustion evident in every inch of his body. “There was a family, you know, living in the same building. Seven kids, and both of the parents, they’re trying, but… I hope they all got out. Smoke, you know. It’s dangerous for kids like them.”

Jehan shakes his head, and pulls the blanket over them both. Afterwards, Feuilly is quiet for a moment, and Jehan wonders if he might have fallen asleep like that, sitting up – he certainly looked like he could. But he sighs again, and turns towards Jehan. He doesn’t look at him directly, his eyes focused on something in the corner of the room.

“I won’t impose for too long,” he finally says. He closes his eyes. “Just a few hours. I’ll go back at sunrise, before I have to go to work. See if there’s anything left, I suppose. And see if I can help. ”

Jehan pulls his friend closer, and Feuilly, exhausted, lets his head rest on the poet’s chest.

“I’ll come with you,” Jehan says softly, his long, elegant fingers lightly combing through the other’s messy red hair. 

“Don’t you have classes tomorrow, though?” Feuilly tries to protest again – it loses some of its effect, though, his voice muffled as it is against the fabric of other’s chemise. 

“Not important,” Jehan kisses the top of his head. 

“It is, though, Jehan.”

“My friend, life is usually the best professor one can wish for. You, if anyone, are the proof of this,” he says. Feuilly grunts, and Jehan smiles. “Besides, it is only one class. The professor will understand. And I want to come.”

If he isn’t convinced – and he probably isn’t, really – Feuilly doesn't say. Instead he nods against Jehan’s chest, then is quiet once more. Jehan kisses him again, and blows the candle. He keeps lightly rubbing his friend’s back until he too falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting on my drive for a while, I can't look at it anymore. Once again, please forgive any errors, English is not my first language - I know, I know, it's not an excuse, but...
> 
> please, tell me what you think!


End file.
